


To Love and to Serve

by Firestorm717



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Authority Figures, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, Facials, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:23:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5764612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firestorm717/pseuds/Firestorm717
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert is caught between his loyalty to the Prefect and his devotion to his patron, and Chabouillet is more than willing to take advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Love and to Serve

For seven long minutes, the Secrétaire du Préfet de Police allowed his subordinate to stand at attention, silent and unacknowledged, before he looked up from his letters with a displeased wrinkle in his brow. “It’s unlike you to be late, Javert.”

Javert bowed low. “My deepest apologies. I would not presume to waste Monsieur Chabouillet’s time.” He waited for further reproach, but Chabouillet waved him on impatiently. “Monsieur le Préfet requested my presence in his office earlier. I informed him of our meeting today, but he insisted I remain until I finished delivering my full report.”

“Henri? What case was so urgent that he didn’t deign to notify me?”

“He asked for an update on the investigation of Patron-Minette and the man, Claquesous, who is rumored to lead that criminal organization. Their gang is responsible for a number of thefts and murders along the pier at night. I told him that our forces are searching for their last known whereabouts, but more I could not say.”

“I see.” Chabouillet’s expression was inscrutable.

“The case was handed off to Remy a fortnight ago. The latest murder happened in his district, and his men are most familiar with that area of the docks. I offered Monsieur le Préfet any support I could provide in apprehending these criminals.”

“Did he accept?”

“No.” There was a short silence. “No, he let the matter drop.”

Steepling his fingers, Chabouillet studied Javert with the shrewdness of a veteran politician. “If that were all, you would have had plenty of time to arrive at my office.”

Javert swallowed, eyes dropping to his boots. He chose his next words carefully. “Monsieur le Préfet also inquired after my services to you. He was keen to know how I made myself... useful beyond my duties as inspector.” Javert licked his chapped lips, remembering M. Gisquet’s heavy hand on his shoulder, that low voice rumbling the lewd question in his ear. Heat crept up his neck. “Particularly in private.”

Chabouillet’s eyebrow rose in an elegant arch. “Is that so? And what did you tell the Préfet?”

Nervously, Javert shifted from one foot to the other. “I said that I served in whatever way pleased a man of your standing within the Prefecture. However, as article sixty-nine of the code of criminal law states, I cannot disclose such details without Monsieur le Secrétaire’s written approval. Which I would need to obtain in person, of course.”

In the ensuing silence, Chabouillet’s dry laugh echoed. The lines of tension in his face eased and were replaced by a fond smile. “Your memory of the penal code puts Paris’s best magistrates to shame. A pity you didn’t receive the schooling to pursue that path.”

Javert relaxed at his superior’s mirth, grateful for having dodged bullets from both sides. Whereas refusing M. Gisquet had filled him with dread for failing an authority figure, disappointing M. Chabouillet left a painful stab in his heart. He did not want this man he so revered to send him away.

“Come here.” Pushing back from his mahogany desk, Chabouillet gestured Javert forward.

With his head respectfully inclined, Javert approached his superior, flicking a furtive glance over the patron to whom he owed his entire career.

At first, one might mistake André-Joseph Chabouillet for yet another pampered nobleman. With short hair coiffed into waves of golden wheat, fingers adorned with gemstones that glittered like sunbeams on the surface of the South Sea, he wore the wealth of his aristocratic lineage like a badge of honor upon his chest. Yet that easy, indulgent smile belied the cruelty and cunning behind his pale, frosty eyes. More than one thug had scoffed at his gentle mien, only to find those bejeweled hands wrapped around their neck, the claws of a regal predator. If Javert was a dog born to wolves, then Chabouillet was a wolf who preferred the company of dogs to the sheep who fathered him.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Javert. Promoted again up the ranks of inspector. I suspect you’ll be wearing the silver leaf on your collar soon.” Chabouillet ran his knuckles down the breast of Javert’s navy uniform. “Does the thought excite you?”

Through the layers of wool, M. Chabouillet’s touch sent tingles through his skin. “I am grateful for any opportunity to uphold the law.”

“If you reach the post of inspector general, you’ll be reporting to me daily. I shall require your services every morning in my chambers - perhaps even before dawn breaks.”

Swallowing, Javert lowered his eyes, a pulse of arousal rushing through his veins. He would kneel at the foot of M. Chabouillet’s bed, he thought, await a wordless command, then open his mouth to receive the benediction of his patron’s flesh… “Monsieur, it would be a privilege.” Javert wet his lips. “Allow me to show you how I might dispatch my duties if given the honor.”

Chabouillet stretched out his right hand expectantly.

Sinking to his knees, Javert kissed each proffered finger, lips brushing over the golden hound on his patron’s family crest. After the isolation of Montreuil-sur-Mer, he was all too eager to serve again, and his need was apparent in the pounding of blood to his groin. When M. Chabouillet cupped his jaw, he knew without being asked to open his mouth and suckle those same digits, one, two, and then three, their steady thrusts coaxing forth a moan as Javert imagined the heavy prick that would soon take their place.

After a minute, however, the long fingers withdrew to caress his cheek, following the curve of his whiskers to the lobe of his ear, then down to unclasp his leather stock. Javert tensed in anticipation, eyes fixed on the polished arm of the chair. It would not do to rush his superior, he reminded himself. This was for M. Chabouillet’s pleasure, not his own. He remained still while those manicured nails traced the arch of his head back to the ribbon that secured his hickory-hued hair in a tight, severe ponytail, pausing at the simple bow. A soft tutting sound came from above him.

Javert flushed. That rich length of royal purple silk, trimmed with a border of fleurs-de-lis, was a rare luxury he allowed himself after his promotion to inspector. At the time, he’d thought of the debt he owed to M. Chabouillet, how fond the elder man was of stroking his hair as Javert knelt to pleasure him. But now, in Monsieur le Secrétaire’s presence, he realized the presumptuousness of his choice. To bow his head to his superior, a man of aristocratic blood and breeding, while wearing the emblem of the monarchy was arrogant beyond belief, and Javert shuddered, bracing for the inevitable rebuke.

However, Chabouillet only chuckled and gently tugged the ribbon free. “A lovely color. I never knew you had a taste for such finery, Javert.” He coiled it carefully on his desk.

Javert dipped his head, hiding his face behind the curtain of his long hair. “Only if it pleases you, Monsieur,” he murmured.

M. Chabouillet lifted Javert’s chin with his index finger. “And do you oft think of my pleasure?”

Javert’s gaze flickered. “It is not for me to dwell on anything but the service required of me.”

“That was not my question.” Javert stiffened at the sudden sharpness in M. Chabouillet’s tone. “You’ve already proven your dedication to law and duty. Your loyalty to your superiors is commendable, but mere deference to station holds little interest to me.”

Confusion swam in Javert’s cerulean eyes. Should he not esteem the Secrétaire du Préfet de Police? The scion of House Chabouillet, whose influence held sway in the halls of the French aristocracy?

“Titles, honors,” Chabouillet waved a hand at the medals on his wall, “these are all fleeting. What I want to know is where you stand when free of the chain of command. Tell me, if no hierarchy divided the Prefecture de Police, whom would you _choose_ to serve?”

This was new to Javert. All his life, he had followed the rules, and those rules laid out clearly his position in society and to whom he answered above. “I would never venture to overstep my bounds,” Javert recited the humble reply expected of him, yet M. Chabouillet’s disappointed frown twisted deep as a knife inside him, spilling his next words out, “but given the choice, if… if no other power existed besides God on high, I would serve only you.”

A smile of satisfaction spread across Chabouillet’s face. “Very good. Remember that, Javert - for all that rank and class dictate the source of our daily bread, personal devotion is the only lasting form of authority.” He peered into Javert’s wide eyes, his expression at once tender and indisputable in its next command. “And I trust I have that from you.”

A flush of heat roiled through Javert, clenching like a fist around his heart. “Yes. Yes, always, Monsieur Chabouillet.” His voice quavered. Unable to contain his emotions, he buried his face between his patron’s legs, nuzzling the muscular thigh and pressing kisses up the seam of the cream-colored trousers as he reached for the buttons at its crotch. Javert was grateful when M. Chabouillet freed his thick cock, beckoning with one finger. This was a language with which he was more familiar.

Leaning in, he sucked the head eagerly into his mouth, relishing the taste of M. Chabouillet’s wetness, the salty tip and heavy musk masked by perfume. Javert was ashamed to admit he recognized the scent - a heady blend of ambergris, white sandalwood, and jasmine, spiked with blood red wine - had lingered on it in his fantasies time and again until his obsession made him seek out a bottle at a Parisian parlor. Guiltily, he would inhale a whiff in the dark before touching himself. Now, with M. Chabouillet’s curls tickling his nose, that overwhelming scent drove Javert mad with want. Moaning, he swallowed hungrily around the hefty cock.

Javert’s attentiveness was rewarded with a low hiss of pleasure. The flesh inside his mouth stiffened, stretching his lips wide, and he felt his own prick harden in kind. When M. Chabouillet’s cock became fully engorged, he pulled back to swirl his tongue around the tip, eliciting a soft groan from the man above.

“Look up,” Chabouillet commanded, tilting Javert’s head until the other’s neck was one long, smooth runway aligned with his prick.

Javert shivered, swiping his tongue over shiny lips. Anticipation throbbed like a steady drumbeat in his groin.

For a second, Chabouillet stroked the kneeling man’s cheek, his expression almost tender. Then, that placid visage slipped to reveal the taut wolf’s grin underneath. Wrapping his hand in a fistful of Javert’s hair, Chabouillet fucked his subordinate’s throat with long, deep thrusts, the head of his cock forcing a desperate, wet gurgle from Javert each time it slid to the back of his gullet. The first few times, Javert managed not to choke, swallowing frantically around the thick shaft. However, as Chabouillet’s pace quickened, he found himself struggling for air until, all at once, panic spasmed his throat, and he fell back, gagging.

Javert gulped in breath after painful breath, his forehead pressed against M. Chabouillet’s boot. Spittle dribbled in a thin thread from his lips to the wooden floor. When a hand reached down, he flinched instinctively, expecting a cuff for his failure.

Instead, those elegant fingers cupped his cheek. “Relax. Breathe slowly.” Seeing shameful tears blur Javert’s sea-green eyes, Chabouillet said patiently, “I will direct you.”

Gratitude welled inside Javert’s chest, pathetic in its relief. He did not deserve this man’s kindness. “Thank you, Monsieur Chabouillet,” he whispered.

Holding Javert’s jaw steady, Chabouillet sank his cock slowly into that open mouth, down, down, deep until it nearly hit the back of Javert’s throat. Then, he pulled out. Again, he slid into that wet cavern, thrusting just a little further and faster this time. Then, back. And again, and again, his pace gradually picking up. 

Whimpering, Javert tried to bob with the thrusts at first, but was halted by a sharp pinch from M. Chabouillet. “Don’t move. Keep your tongue flat. Focus only on opening your throat for me.”

Javert did as he was told, and the next thrust slid in easier. Though M. Chabouillet’s gold rings chafed his neck, he held steady. His erection, which had softened after his first abortive attempt, stirred once more. Closing his eyes, Javert thought only of his breathing, the heavy weight in his mouth, the grip in his hair, until gradually he slipped into a reverie, aware only of pounding of that thick, hard length down his throat. He surrendered to M. Chabouillet’s touch, allowing the elder man to angle his head so that cock could penetrate deepest. He did his duty, shoved aside all pain and soreness in pursuit of his superior’s climax.

It was not long before Chabouillet’s rhythm grew ragged, his groans of pleasure short and breathless. The first drops of come leaked down Javert’s throat.

Javert choked on the trickle of salty liquid, unable to stop himself from jerking back, but as his throat constricted around the hot, throbbing shaft one last time, Chabouillet reached his climax, spurting thick ropes of sticky come all across Javert’s face. A yelp of surprise burst from Javert’s lips. He reached up to swipe away the mess, but a hand clamped his wrist in an iron vise.

“No. Let me see,” Chabouillet panted, pulling Javert back by his hair. Come was smeared across that rigid nose and chin, splattered on one cheekbone, long strands dangling from red, swollen lips and mingling with spittle on his slack jaw. There was a splash of it on his tongue, and Javert swallowed, his humiliation complete when a low chuckle rumbled through M. Chabouillet’s chest. 

“Look at the mess you’ve made, Javert. We can’t have an inspector showing his face in public like this.” The elder man abruptly released his grip, his touch gentle once more as he patiently wiped off the seed and fed it to Javert, drop by drop, like a master to his pup.

A shudder ran through Javert’s spine even as he moaned around M. Chabouillet’s fingers. He should be mortified, he knew, down on his knees with his countenance splattered in sweat and seed like a filthy whore. This was too close to his beginnings in the gutter. That boy had done anything to survive on the streets. Javert did not want M. Chabouillet, his patron, this man who radiated elegance and grace, whom Javert respected and admired and held dear in ways undeserved by one of his lowly station, to see him this way - stripped bare of his cloak of dignity, branded with come like a bitch in heat.

Yet even as an ignominious flush crawled up his neck and cheeks, he couldn't stop the arousal that followed in its wake. Every glob of spend he swallowed sent a thrill through his cock until Javert was squirming against the tip of M. Chabouillet’s boot, the damp spot in his trousers grown with barely contained need. Oh, how he wanted to reach down, to touch himself for just a moment, to find release...

“Javert. Patience.” That single word froze Javert’s hand in its tracks. Mutely, he clenched his fist on the floor, trembling. “Now, do clean all of this up.” Wiping his hand on a handkerchief, Chabouillet gestured at his own cock. 

Leaning in, Javert dutifully laved M. Chabouillet’s flaccid length with his tongue, swallowing each salty drop though it hurt his throat. When he finished, he returned to his haunches, his only outward sign of frustrated lust in the blush on his cheeks and tent in his trousers.

Sated, Chabouillet leaned back in his velvet-lined chair and began reading a letter as he absently stroked Javert’s hair, and Javert, having known little affection from his birth in a dank prison cell, lapped the gesture up gratefully. This was all ever wanted, he told himself, laying his head on M. Chabouillet’s knee. To submit at the feet of this esteemed man of the law. To offer up irreproachable service. And if some nights, he dreamed of M. Chabouillet’s lips on his own, of those cool eyes regarding him with genuine love and passion, well… Javert buried those longings deep in the recesses of his heart, beneath the trunk of God and the crown of authority.

It was not for him to impose his selfish desires on his patron.

“Is there…” Javert coughed, his voice still hoarse from the earlier pounding. “Is there anything else you wish of me, Monsieur?” he asked hopefully when M. Chabouillet set down the letter. Perhaps if he performed better this time, his patron would be kind enough to spend in his mouth.

“Hm?” Chabouillet looked down, then fished a silver pocketwatch out of his vest. “Oh no, that’s quite enough for tonight. The hour is late, and I have a function to attend on the morrow.” Buttoning his trousers, he motioned for his subordinate to stand.

Slowly, Javert rose to his feet, unable to hide his disappointment at the dismissal. He buckled his leather stock and began tying his hair, feeling self-conscious with the other man’s eyes on him, though he knew not why.

Chabouillet watched Javert dress, silent and considering, like a rider at the stables assessing a prize racehorse, his gaze lingering on the dark, wild mane now tucked back into its severe ponytail. “Purple looks becoming on you, Javert, although I think red better suits the color of your cheeks.” His eyes twinkled with a sudden idea. “You should purchase a few ribbons from the boutique on Champs-Élysées. Bring them next time, so that I might select the best one.”

“Yes, Monsieur.” Javert knew how much coin those silks cost, but he would not hesitate to pay if it pleased M. Chabouillet. “Thank you for allowing me to be of service.” With a deep bow, he headed for the door.

“Oh, and before you leave, there’s one more thing, Javert.” Chabouillet’s quill paused over the sheet of parchment on his desk. “Deliver a message to Monsieur Gisquet for me. Tell him that while he may outrank me as the Préfet de Police, when it comes to _personal_ requests of my agents, I hold the final say. And I don’t share my best inspector.” He fixed Javert with a piercing gaze.

Javert reddened and gave another stiff bow. Long after the ache in his trousers subsided, the ache in his heart lingered on with memories of M. Chabouillet’s fingers in his hair and hand caressing his cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> This is wholly inspired by Esteliel's wonderful fic, [The Exactitude of Service](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3248759/chapters/7080035), and Philip Quast's beautiful portrayal of Javert in the musical. That moment during the suicide scene when he lets his hair down spawned my ribbon kink. To rectify the imbalance of power between Chabouillet and Gisquet in their little lust triangle, I conceived of Chabouillet as a manipulative politician who has far more aristocratic connections, but prefers to pull strings from the shadows. Gisquet isn't the first Prefect he's worked under, and it won't be his last.


End file.
